


bill denbrough as buffalo bill

by hawrthiacoopri



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, hahaahaaaaa this is from my tumblr i get too many requests, hope u like it its kinda short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-12-03 09:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawrthiacoopri/pseuds/hawrthiacoopri
Summary: Bill plugged his fingers into Stan's sides, making him yelp and push him off. "Luh-het it go. That's noh-hot impuh-puh-portant right now." He kissed the stop of Stan's head, inhaling sharply to smell the expensive shampoo the black-haired boy used in his hair. It smelled a little like rosemary, a little like campfire from the trip Stan just got back from. Most importantly, it smelled like Stan. "Juh-just focus on the /muh-moment/, Stanley."Stan pushed him off again, sitting on his bed and crossing his legs in his usual way; one ankle on the other leg's thigh, hands bracing against the lower calf of the leg that was up, back almost stick straight. Very precise. Very Stan."Whuh-where are your p-p-parents?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the summary is shitty but whateverrrrr! have a good time w this fam

"Yuh-you okay?" Bill stood behind his tiny boyfriend, wrapping his arms around his waist and setting his chin on Stan's head. "Doh-hon't think y-y-ourself to d-death." 

Stan looked up from his satchel, hands raised in surprise from his clothes. "What?" he asked quickly, his hands automatically floating to Bill's. "What, Bill?" 

That was one thing Bill appreciated about Stan- he didn't resort to nicknames. He rather disliked them, actually, and rarely ever called Bill anything other than his given name. No 'sweetie's, no 'babe's, no nothing. Just Bill. Short and to the point, just how Stan liked things. 

Not to say he wasn't funny- Stan was hilarious when he wanted to be and made Bill laugh all the time. 

Stan wasn't prudish, either, or necessarily strict; he just disliked babysitting his friends. He didn't really understand that other people weren't as mature and straightforward as he was, and expected everyone to have the same standards and reasoning as he did. Goofing off made him titchy and, though Stan looked cute with his hands on his hips and his foot tapping as he parented the other Losers, Bill preferred his partners happy and so always made sure he knew what to do.

His cynicism didn't come from a place of hate or contradiction- Stan simply had a straight and ordered and mind, and if something misplaced one of his volumes of reasons, he would rush to jam it back into place, and could usually make it fit back in, which was nice.

The only problem with that was, he'd miss the spots in other parts of his imaginary library of reason that would fit the volume much better in his desperation to keep his world in constant order. 

Temporary moral chaos was not an option for Stan. If he couldn't immediately explain something with logic and reasoning, he didn't want to think about it. All of these things were one of many things Bill loved about Stan, his scientific, mathematical little boyfriend. 

"Nuh-nothing," Bill replied. "Don't wuh-worry about ih-it."

"What?" Stan pressed, hating to be kept in what he thought of as the dark as always. "What did you say?" 

"N-Nothing!" Bill rolled his eyes at the back of Stan's head. "Stan, suh-seriously. I j-j-just wanted to know w-why you wuh-were so i-ih-nvested in your buh-buh-b-" 

"Bag," Stan finished for him. "I was just thinking about all the tests we have coming up." Bill chuckled a bit at that. Of course Stan was thinking about tests on spring break. 

Bill plugged his fingers into Stan's sides, making him yelp and push him off. "Luh-het it go. That's noh-hot impuh-puh-portant right now." He kissed the stop of Stan's head, inhaling sharply to smell the expensive shampoo the black-haired boy used in his hair. It smelled a little like rosemary, a little like campfire from the trip Stan just got back from. Most importantly, it smelled like Stan. "Juh-just focus on the /muh-moment/, Stanley." 

Stan pushed him off again, sitting on his bed and crossing his legs in his usual way; one ankle on the other leg's thigh, hands bracing against the lower calf of the leg that was up, back almost stick straight. Very precise. Very Stan. 

"Whuh-where are your p-p-parents?" 

"Out," Stan said shortly. 

Bill grinned, striding towards Stan before taking his hands, nudging Stan's long legs so they were both on the ground and pushing him back so he was laying flush against the bed on his back. "Yuh-you know what huh-h-happens when parents ah-aren't home, don't you, Stanley?"

"I do," Stan agreed, twisting his hands so he was holding Bill's wrists and rolling them over on the bed so that he was now on top of Bill. "What happens is that we watch a movie in my living room on the new television you desperately wanted to see and then take showers and go to bed." 

"/Showers/?" Bill said, laughing and scooting the two up the bed so that they were in the middle of Stan's large, full-size bed. "Yuh-you take showers at sluh-sleepovers?" 

"Yeah," Stan said meekly. "I mean, I don't get invited to many, and the ones I do go to are with Richie who doesn't care. Is... is that not normal?" 

Bill shook his head, propping himself up on his elbows and pressing a kiss to Stan's lips. "Nuh-no. It's not. B-b-but you're nuh-not normal either, Stan U-Uris." He made a sappy face at Stan. "Yuh-you're eh-exceptional, b-buh-baby." Stan could tell he was being purposefully cheesy, but he frowned anyways at the over-the-top sweetness, and Bill added quickly, "we c-can do whatever yuh-y-you want, th-though. We can t-take showers if y-you need."

Bill knew, of course, about Stan's obsession with cleanliness- anyone who cared about Stan did. But he also knew how important Stan's routines were to him. Everything must be done in a certain way a certain amount of times, or a world-shattering catastrophe would happen, or Stan's mother would drop dead, or Bill would get sick, according to Stan himself. He felt a quiet desperation to have everything just right, and nothing mattered more than that. For most people, cleanliness was next to godliness.

For Stan Uris, cleanliness /was/ godliness. 

"That's what we'll do after the movie, then." Stan finished the conversation promptly, detaching from Bill and standing up, heading downstairs. Bill had grown accustomed to this part of Stan, even to appreciate it, but many people thought it rude, he knew. When Stan was finished talking about something, he never changed topics- he simply walked away or picked up a book. He wasn't ignoring you when he did it. He was simply finished. 'I'm finished talking', it seemed to say, 'and I'm going to go away now.'

Bill pursued Stan down the stairs, looping an arm around the smaller boy and leaning into him a little at the hip. "Whuh-hat movie is it?" 

"Buffalo Bill," he replied, a faint smile splitting his lips. "I thought it was fitting." 

Bill raised an eyebrow. "Yuh-you hate Weh-hesterns, Stanley." 

"I know." Stan smiled. "But Ben gave it to me, and I might as well watch it with someone who /does/ like Westerns." 

Stan was right- Bill did like Western movies. He liked the accents and the costumes. He sometimes thought about his friends as Western stereotypes- Mike the lone ranger, fingers hanging off of his huge, shining belt buckle. Ben the smiling sheriff, with his friendly gut hanging over his pants in his gingham shirt, his cheeks and face well-dimpled from grinning at strangers. Richie the drunkard in the saloon. Beverly the cowgirl. Eddie would be the young woman tied up on the train tracks, he thought with a smile. He himself would be the handsome lead, as people constantly told him he was. He never could figure out what Stan was, though. He couldn't place Stan's personality in Western tropes. He wasn't a villain, but he wasn't a hero either. Strange. 

Bill gave Stan a quick, smiley kiss on the lips, leading him to the couch and pushing him into the cushions of the couch. "Thuh-that's v-very juh-juh-generous of you. Th-thanks, babe." He tried the pet name out, liking the way it sounded on his tongue. "I'l guh-guh-get your blankets." He waited for Stan's okay, and bolted upstairs to grab a fleece or two. He came back with a few, piling them all on Stan so that only his small face peeked out and his feet poked from the bottom, his wiry curls sticking through the woven quilt.

"Gee, thanks, stud," Stan said sarcastically. Bill froze, looking up from where he was arranging the blankets. 

"Huh?" 

Stan rolled his eyes lovingly. "I said, thanks for the-" 

Bill shook his head. "Nuh-no, I kn-know... What d-d-did you call me?" 

"I- It was just a joke..." The boy looked at him carefully. "Why?" 

"No, nuh-no, s-say it again." Bill smiled toothily. "Juh-hust for fun." 

"I called you a stud." 

"Mhm." 

The two looked at eachother, before Stan rolled his eyes and scooted over to put his head on Bill's shoulder. "You're really something else, Bill Denbrough," he said quietly, watching as the opening credits began to play.

"Buh-hut am I a st-stuh-stud?" Bill asked mischeviously, a glint in his eye that Stan recognized all too well. 

"Bill Denbrough, don't you even dare tickle me," Stan said frantically, scooting quickly away from his boyfriend. 

"I'm going to tuh-t-tickle you," Bill responded, his voice firm and light. 

"No, you're not." 

"Yes I am!" Bill pounced, grabbing Stan's hips and pinning them down, tickling all over Stan's chest and torso until he was gasping for breath between laughs and twisting his hips to get Bill off of him. "Yuh-yes I am, yes I-I am!" 

"Stop, oh please," Stan gasped, tossing to and fro in his attempt to free himself. "Get off, I can't breathe, Bill!" 

Bill finally relented, dragging Stan so that his shoulder was, once again, Stan's pillow. Stan slumped over, letting his head drop into Bill's lap so he was glare-smiling up at him. 

"You're not a stud anymore," he accused. "You're a bad boyfriend." 

Bill pretended to flex his arm, trying to look ridiculous and ending up looking a little smug. "H-hey. Yuh-you can take th-the boy ou-ou-out of the st-stud, but y-you can't take th-the stud out uh-of the boy." 

Stan snorted, lifting his arm to push Bill's face away from him. "That doesn't even make sense,  
shut up." 

Bill pretended not to hear, pressing a finger to his lips and shushing his boyfriend. "The muh-movie's starting, sh-shush!" 

Stan complied, and they watched the movie in a lovely silence. Bill's hands danced through Stan's hair, winding his fingers through his coils and waves. Stan's hair was thick, and curly, and a beautiful dark brown. It was beautiful, in Bill's opinion. It went well with his olive skin and brown eyes. He loved running his hands through it and detangling the back for Stan, since he wasn't flexible and didn't ever quite reach the back of his hair. Everything about Stan was beautiful. Sculpted, even. He looked like a fashion model to Bill. Stan occasionally turned over or snuggled deeper into Bill's lap, pulling the covers over his nose and sighing at the screen. 

When the movie ended, Stan was sound asleep in Bill's lap. The redhead smiled gently down at the snoozing boy, moving gingerly out from under him and sliding his arms under Stan so that he could pick him up. 

He carried Stan to the bedroom, and no sooner had Bill set him down again then Stan woke up, sitting back and stretching. Bill looked at him in a mix of exasperation and love. 

"Of c-course, the minute I puh-put you down you wuh-w-wake up." Bill tutted, wagging a finger that Stan grabbed and used to pull Bill in so he could wrap his arms around the taller boy. 

"Yep. It was my plan all al-long." Stan punctuated the last word with a yawn. 

Bill hummed into Stan's forehead, leading him into the bathroom. "You b-big baby. Huh-how are you tired?" 

"Westerns are boooring," Stan complained, working on brushing his teeth and putting mouthwash in his cup at the same time. 

Bill watched from the doorway, suggesting, "duh-did you forget about sh-showering?" 

"Oh, shoot, I did forget!" Stan looked at Bill with the look of a caught rabbit. He HAD to take a shower. He HAD to.

The redhead took Stan into his arms, kissing him three times all over his face and looking down at him. "H-hey. Ih-it's okay." Bill rubbed the small of his back, trying to help him calm down. "Yuh-you took one th-this morning, didn't yuh-you?" 

"Yeah," Stan said uneasily, "are- are you sure it's okay?" he looked at his boyfriend with something akin to caution, begging Bill to not just say it was okay, but to make it okay. 

Bill smiled reassuringly. "Y-yeah. We'll be fine. You d-don't have to wuh-w-worry quh-quite so much, Stuh-hanley." Stan opened his mouth to object, but closed it quickly when he saw Bill's sympathetic eyes. He was right, Stan knew, but worrying was safe. You didn't get hurt quite so much if you were prepared for the worst. 

But Bill was here, and he never got hurt when Bill was around, so he gave it a rest and stepped out of his small bathroom, shutting the door and letting Bill trail after him as he began to pick up his room, before hesitating and beginning to change into pajamas, seeming to change his mind about something.

"Whuh-hat's that about?" Bill asked, referring to his boyfriend's stop and start of cleaning his space. As we've already stated, Bill knew how much clean space meant to him. 

"Don't worry about it," came Stan's reply. "Just deciding not to do my routine for now." 

Bill shrugged. That made no difference to him; if Stan needed a break from routine, that was fine, because whenever Stan wanted a break from routine it meant great things for Bill.

As Stan changed, Bill took out his portable radio and began fiddling with the channels. Finally, he came upon the one he always listened to- the Bangor music station- and as Annette Funicello and her gaggle of backup singers started lilting 'Tall Paul', Stan smiled and laughed a little. 

"Whuh-what's so funny?" Bill asked, turning to Stan happily as he snapped his fingers. Bill wasn't much of a dancer. 

"Nothing," Stan said absently, beginning to make the bed into a two-person affair instead of the usual one. He moved his numerous pillows into different configurations as he said warmly, "this song just reminds me of you." 

"Thuh-this song?" He raised an eyebrow, thinking about the lyrics before grinning wide. "Juh-gee, that's swuh-sweet." 

Stan ignored him, singing softly, "Tall Paaaul, tall Pau-aul, tall Pau-aul- he's-a my all." 

Bill smiled at Stan's back, walking up behind him and wrapping his arms firmly around Stan's waist. He swayed back and forth a little, letting Stan hum and sing as he did so and kissing his cheek when he finished. "It's guh-good to knuh-know you think uh-of me from time to tuh-tuh-time." 

"I think about you all the time," Stan said earnestly, "so don't think I don't, Bill Denbrough-" 

"I wuh-wasn't saying that," he said soothingly. "Luh-luh-love isn't a cuh-contest, S-S-Stan." Bill pushed Stan's tensed shoulders down, leading him to the bed and sitting him down. 

"Oh, I-" Stan cut himself off, thinking better of whatever he was about to say. "I know," he said finally. "I love you, Billuick," he began again, using the nickname just once for their special thing.

"Luh-luh-love you too, S-Sedanley." Bill held up one half of a heart that he made with his hand, and Stan held up the other. They clicked them together- Bill with tempered excitement, and Stan with a noncommittal affection- and then let their hands fall into each other's. Cheesy, they both knew and agreed, but it was something they'd always done. Like a secret handshake, but less... handshakey. More of a password, maybe. 

Stan did it again, his little thing of walking away from conversations he was done with, and started to get into bed. He turned on his own, much nicer radio, letting the dull drone of Derry Public Radio wash over him. Stan always listened to things to help him fall asleep, and he supposed tonight was no different. Constant noise seemed only useful to Stan at one time- night. Bill wondered why that was. 

"You coming?" Stan asked, patting the bed beside him. "There's plenty of room." 

Bill grinned again, sliding onto the bed eagerly and letting Stan tease his way into Bill's arms; hesitant at first, as he always was, before warming up to it and letting himself relax just a little. It used to bug Bill that Stan wasn't ever comfortable with him, but he'd since realized that this was just the way it has to be. 

They lay like that for a while, Bill separating and making little twists in Stan's hair, Stan listening intently to the radio as he drowsed off. He occasionally would say something random or ask a question, one of the questions leading to a conversation that Bill would remember somewhere in the back of his mind for years and years to come. 

"Bill," Stan had asked, "do you think you're ever gonna forget about me?"

"Of course not. Why do you think that?" 

"I dunno... it's just a feeling, you know? I mean, Eddie barely writes us anymore, and we hardly see Mike. I just... I feel like we're all forgetting the same something. Something important." 

"Stuh-tan, you're m-more important th-than anything to me. I cuh-c-could never forget y-you, okay?" Bill rubbed a circle into Stan's back, his hands sure and strong. 

"But what if you do?" Stan exclaimed, not sated, not satisfied. "what if I move and you forget about me, until you dont even remember we dated? And you wonder where your letterman's jacket is? Bill, it scares me so bad, I- I never want to forget you." 

"You wuh-won't." Bill proclaimed this with perhaps too much confidence. "Stan, pluh-please, you're oh-only working yuh-yourself u-u-up." 

Stan drew in breath, but didn't say anything. "Okay," he said, pained but agreeable, as always. 

Bill's stutter seemed to leave him for a moment as he focused on cheering Stan up. "And b-besides, I don't think I'll be able to forget you whuh-when you're my lih-hittle house-husband." 

"Shut up," Stan grumbled, hating the idea of house husbandry. 

"Okay." Bill mimicked Stan's earlier tone, earning a kick from the annoyed Stan. "If you can make me."

The rest of whatever they said is lost now- lost amidst the whispered 'I love you's that Bill whispered into Stan's ear as they did what any two teenage boys would do in an empty house. Lost amidst the quieter 'you too's from Stan. Lost amidst the chatter of the radiohost and the whisper of sheets and the sound of sewers dripping in a slumber what would last another quarter century, and amidst car doors on the street slamming. But most importantly, lost in the infinitely changing winds of time, a small memory of no significance that almost no one would consider important, least of all the owners, until they lost it. Memories like those gave way to more adult worries, and slowly, they did end up forgetting.

Teenagers would always be wrong about what's important, though, right?

An excerpt from the end acknowledgments in Bill Denbrough's novel 'The Fallen Tree', page 597: 

'...And lastly, I'd like to acknowledge and thank the people I've forgotten indefinitely. I struggle to remember your names, I could not put it to a face in a crowd of two, but thank you. Your support has brought me here, brings me to new places. 

One of you in particular eludes me, and I feel as if I have lost a part of myself whenever I remember you existed for me, in my minuscule universe. You helped me in ways I can neither remember nor imagine. 

I loved you. 

I loved you so much.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The small boy shifted in his boyfriend’s arms, flipping himself away from the streaming sun and burying his nose in Bill’s chest. “Make it stop,” he grumbled, balling a half-asleep fist into Bill’s shirt. “I don’t like it, make it stop.”
> 
> “Can’t stop the sun, babe,” Bill said soothingly, rubbing his back and kissing the tip of his nose. 
> 
> Bill and Stan were always touchiest in the mornings.

Light, clean and soft and pure, streamed in the window. It was a pale yellow, almost white, and it was almost wavy in how wavery it as when the leaves passed over it. It- the light- was partially dampened by linen curtains, crisp and weightless and wonderful, but it somehow still filtered through in a white haze that seemed to burn Stanley Uris’s eyelids. 

The small boy shifted in his boyfriend’s arms, flipping himself away from the streaming sun and burying his nose in Bill’s chest. “Make it stop,” he grumbled, balling a half-asleep fist into Bill’s shirt. “I don’t like it, make it stop.”

“Can’t stop the sun, babe,” Bill said soothingly, rubbing his back and kissing the tip of his nose. 

Bill and Stan were always touchiest in the mornings.

“You can fight it with thicker curtains,” Stan protested, burrowing himself deeper into Bill’s arms. “You should get on that.” 

Bill huffed, and within seconds he was slipping out of the bed (Stan felt like all of the warmth in the world had been ripped from his arms) and drawing the curtains open. The room became blindingly bright. Stan grabbed a pillow and threw it over his head. 

“Not fair!” 

“Very f-fair,” Bill shook his shoulder. “G-get up, Stanley.” 

Stan rolled his eyes beneath the pillow. Really, now that Bill was up, there was no point in staying in bed—but the sheets smelt just like him, and it was so warm... 

“S-Stan.” 

Stanley lifted his head from his pillow, groaning, “oh my GOD, WHAT, Bill.”

Bill smiled charmingly at his boyfriend, and extended a hand. “Buh-br-breakfast.”

The dark-haired boy groaned again, taking the hand and letting himself get pulled up. 

“Ah-ah-attaboy,” Bill grinned. “Luh-let’s go cuh-c-cook.”

Stan frowned. He hated cooking. He hated eating in general- it was gross and messy and he had better things to do- but he’d do it for Bill in this sleepy state. So he got up and he let Bill pull him downstairs in full bedhead, and he set to work getting stuff out for eggs and turkey bacon. 

“Aw, yuh-y-your healthy buh-b-bacon again?” Bill teased, wrapping his arms around Stan’s small waist as he looked around the fridge for the food. Stan was shivering, for he’d never been able to stand up to temperatures, and Bill just hugged him tighter, smiling into his shoulder.

“You KNOW that I don’t even eat regular bacon,” Stan grumbled, taking the pack out and throwing it on the kitchen island before getting the eggs out and placing them down with a little more care. “Shut up.”

Bill smiled and buried his nose into the crook of Stan’s neck, feeling the little curls from Stan’s grown out mop brush his ear. He inhaled and smelled Stan’s dry shampoo and his deodorant and the smell of campfire smoke on his clothes from another birdwatching trip with his father, mingled with sharp crisp pine and rosemary. He smelled intoxicating. “I knuh-know. I just wuh-was giving you a huh-h-hard time.” Stan shied away from Bill’s investigating nose.

“Don’t SNIFF me, you weirdo,” he said loudly, at which Bill broke into peals of laughter. The phrase was just so funny and cute coming from a guy wearing the bottoms to a certainly matching set of silk pajamas and a white t-shirt with a big, fluffy mass of grown-out curls atop his head. You had to laugh.

“S-s-sorry, Stanny,” Bill said when he finally calmed down. “You’re juh-huh-hust… So f-f-funny. Like the suh-hubtitles in a weh-w-w-w-”

“-Western,” Stan finished. ‘But westerns aren’t very funny, Bill, are they?”

“They can be funny,” Bill protested. Stan rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, when you make fun of them, I guess.” 

Bill huffed, though it was obvious enough that he was only feigning his annoyance. He made a show of bitterly eating his bacon, to which Stan spitefully bit off a chunk of his own healthy strip. They finished breakfast with small talk after that, trading easy, back and forth exchanges which seemed to spark into existence and then float away. 

After a little while, they still remained at the table, each with a mug of coffee. Stan flipped through the funnies in the paper while Bill read the obits. 

“Why do you do that?” 

“D-Do what?” Bill looked up from the page he’d been scanning. 

“Read those.”

“T-The obits? I don’t know, I juh-just do.” Bill shrugged. “Why?” 

“It’s... Weird. Like you’re always expecting someone we know to wind up dead, or something.” 

“That’s n-n-not why,” Bill didn’t bother looking up. He sipped his coffee, and Stan watched the steam curl up from the dark liquid and fade away. “I guess I read them because no one else does. K-Kind of like a tribute, you know?” 

“I guess,” Stan nodded, and he set his own newspaper down. He was looking out the window again, at where his family’s bird feeders were, and before long he was up out of his seat and right next to the glass pane above the sink, watching the birds carefully. There, in the sunlight, he looked almost ethereal- no, he did look ethereal. The sun was lighting a halo in his dark curls, and it backlit his slim frame, making him look even more statuesque. Even in his pajamas he was beautiful. “I’d rather just go to a memorial than read about it, though.”

“That’s duh-d-dark,” Bill accused, and suddenly Stan felt arms wrapping around his waist and a head on his shoulder.

Ignoring Bill, Stan began to hum to ‘Put Your Head On My Shoulder’ by Paul Anka and swayed to and fro. Bill moved with him, making a show of putting his foot down hard at every tilt as they looked out the window together. 

“YOU’RE dark,” Stan finally answered, and Bill snorted.

“Thuh-that all you got, Stanley?”

“Hmmm… yes.” Stan turned around, abruptly stopping the humming and shaking bill’s hands off of him. He wasted no time, putting hands on either side of Bill’s face and kissing him deeply. He had to go on his tiptoes a little, a reminder Stan of how much taller Bill had gotten since they were just kids, but he managed it with grace and leaned forward until Bill was gripping the side of the counter to keep from falling over. He broke away for a moment, before Stan kissed him again, and then again, before finally pulling off with a slight ‘pop!’ as Bill’s lips broke away from him. The whole thing, though it seemed as if it should have been messy, had been gentle and graceful and almost silent. Just the way Stan liked most things. 

“Wuh-w-what was that for?” Bill asked, surprised at Stan’s impulsiveness, watching Stan’s hands play with the hem of his nightshirt closely. Stan smiled shyly, once again looking like the blushing fourteen year old Bill had asked out three years ago. 

“Making sure you won’t forget about me, stud.”

Bill’s smile flickered, but it returned as quick as it was gone and he pulled Stan as tight to him as possible. He pressed their foreheads together, locking their hands as he did so, and looked lovingly into Stan’s eyes. He could see the pain there, the regret Stan still had, and all the fear that’d been put there for as long as Stan could probably remember, and he felt sure in what he said next.

“Stanley Uris, don’t even think for a second I’d ever forget you.”

Stan believed it.

But he shouldn’t have. 

Another excerpt, from Stanley Uris’s journal, circa 1985, written around 4 days before his suicide:

‘It’s funny, you know- I’ve never been one for dreams. I almost never get them, nothing like the nightmares I know I had as a kid, anyway, and the ones I do get are always fragmented, and I remember them perfectly. I’ve had three just in the last week. Patty says you dream all night but only remember something like 30% of them, and maybe that’s true, but I don’t really believe it. I haven’t believed anything in awhile. I keep having this one. 

I’m always in a boy’s room. It looks like the one I had as a kid, but smaller and messier, and it has pictures all over, of this teenage boy and this littler one. I’m not a sibling, so it isn’t my room, but I feel so comfortable in it… It’s strange, it feels like it’s really my room, but not. Like a partner’s room, sort of, you know?

And this teenage boy, he’s sitting on the bed. Every time. I’m not going to lie to you, this boy isn’t bad looking. He looks like he plays sports of some kind, he’s got a beautiful face and body, the kind you always wanted in college and never got. And he looks like he just stopped crying. So I always walk up to him, and when i look down at myself, I’m holding suitcases that’re really heavy, but I’m bringing them into this boys room, for some reason? And I’ve gotten a glimpse of myself in the mirror he has, it’s definitely me, I look just like I did. God, I was skinny. And short. Well I’m still short, but still, you get it. 

And I always say something along the lines of guessing this is goodbye, and he just breaks down in tears. It sounds like his brother just died, or something, and he just takes me in his arms and keeps sobbing into my shoulder. I can feel it on my shirt, even after I wake up. And I always say that I guess so too, and I comfort him as he cries in the dream, and then suddenly I just… Wake up. Right as he’s about to say something. 

I think he was calling me a nickname. It sounds like Sedanley. And I always wake up thinking, ‘love you too, Billuick’. What the fuck does that even mean?

What’s happening to me? Please, I’m serious, I feel like I’m going crazy. This dream is all I can think about. Who is this boy? 

Why do I feel like I love him?

I suppose I’ll figure it out eventually.

Atlanta, September 1985”

An excerpt from Mike Hanlon’s journal, circa 1986, a year and a half after the Losers left Derry for the last time:

“…but Stan’s last note in his journal, the second to last thing he ever wrote, on a separate page of this journal, is interesting to note, actually. It’s so shaky and messy I could barely read it, so I can only assume it was written while Stan waited for the bath to run. It says, ‘tell Bill I loved his books’. There appears to be something about a Richie as well, something about congratulating him, but it was crossed out and replaced with this.

All I can say is, Stanley, why couldn’t you come and tell him yourself?”


End file.
